With stories about Manny being an angry little fart.
Ollie violence is not a spinoff of my being stuck here.
My ears are pounding.
Dad used to say that was a bad thing. If your ears are full with pumping blood, then you’re letting anger control you. He said I was angry, sometimes. But anger meant action, and action righted things. I’m angry, so I want action.
That’s why I’m picturing punching Oliver’s stupid head in.
At least he’s not grinning this time. He looks kind of dumb and scared. But he’s always dumb and he should be scared. My hands are fists. That’s something to be scared of. Dad told me that I had a good punch. A long time ago, he did. But he told me not to use it unless I really had to. He never explained what that meant. There’re lots of times when I want to punch things. How am I supposed to know when it’s okay?
Oliver’s dumb face makes me want to punch him. Isn’t that a good enough reason? Dad would probably say no. Sometimes he used to surprise me and say yes, but really softly, because he didn’t like saying it was okay to hurt things. But I can’t ask him anyway. I can’t ask him anymore.
I tell stupid Oliver that. I yell at him. I can’t ask him anymore. I can’t ask my Dad anything anymore. And it’s his fault. His face scrunches up, and he looks like a dumb kid about to cry. My fists get even tighter. I want to hit him. I want to punch him as hard as I can. My Dad would tell me not to in his deep scratchy voice but I won’t hear it again.
I have to hurt him to be even.
He tries to say something, and I rage. I take two big steps and pull my arm up to my chin. Stupid Oliver hides his stupid face but I punch him anyway. He makes a funny girly noise and falls over, in a stupid little ball of stupid skinny legs and arms. I push his stupid legs out of the way and drop on his stupid guts with my knees and punch him with my other fist. He makes more dumb noises like a beaten dog, and the noise makes me angry, so I hit him again.
My knuckles hurt a lot. I think they’re bleeding, but so is stupid Oliver’s face, and I think I’m crying but stupid Oliver’s face is covered in water too. My ears are pounding so much that I can’t hear. He keeps trying to look at me but my fists won’t let him.
My arms are pinched and I’m being pulled away and he curls up to one side. Sounds start filling my ears, sharp and loud. Someone’s yelling in French. I stop pulling against the arms holding me and just watch like a limp fish. Someone pushes his matted hair away and props him up. Someone turns his face with an open hand and curses. Someone looks at me with angry eyes, but he can’t look at me at all.
Stupid Oliver not being able to lift himself up. Stupid Oliver being coddled by everybody. Stupid Oliver being so bloody and pitiful.
Sometimes I hate him.